


Whiskey is for Running

by Jacklight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Lack of Backstory, Lemon, M/M, Mutant Harry, Roughness, Sex, Swearing, Vignette, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 18:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacklight/pseuds/Jacklight
Summary: Across all the probable and possible realities there is one where Harry meets Logan in a bar and sticks with him, because Logan's searching for lost memories and Harry is running from his; both needing something intangible but altogether the same thing.





	Whiskey is for Running

**Author's Note:**

> This thing has been skulking around my computer for YEARS...take it. Take it away from me (and watch out: it bites!).

I.

There were some things that Logan could remember and some things he couldn’t recall no matter how hard he tried. His memory – his mind – was a fractured thing, displaying images across two centuries of time but in no order or with no common connectedness.

In the last decade, his memories had taken on a new torture. There were times Logan thought he could remember two different things he’d swear happened at the same time, as if there were two of him and he was seeing some other Logan's memories of a place far away.

As Logan sat in a dim bar somewhere in the vast expanse of Canada, he saw the President's speech on the television and remembered - knew he saw the same speech on a television in a bar smelling of chicory and gin in the middle of the winding streets of New Orleans. In the dim corner of that memory is a man who shuffled cards, red light sparking across his fingers as he spoke in a languid, lazy voice, heavy with smoke, heavy with gin.

Logan didn’t think he'd ever been to Louisiana, but the memory was vivid and stubborn in a way that most of his memories weren’t. It pressed itself into his mind, overlaying his vision as if he was seeing double with the television's broadcast and Logan's slump over the bar the only common denominators.

He could glance over his shoulder into the corner where the pool table was occupied by a trio of truckers and see the man dealing cards in his memory, red sparks dancing along their edges.

He couldn’t quite remember why or how but he knew that both memories were his and were real, but there was something he was missing - some vital bit of knowledge that was hidden away in the dark depths of his fractured mind that he couldn’t reach.

He was drinking gin, the taste dry and familiar as his memory played out in a faint way. It faded too quickly, leaving the taste of gin and a flash of red cards suffusing his thoughts.

"You alright mate?" the voice was a rough baritone, accented and full of concern.

The man didn’t touch Logan, which probably saved his life, and Logan focused around the strange double vision of memory overlaying reality to take in the man sliding onto the stool next to him.

He was lithe, with dark hair and bright eyes, but that was all Logan saw before the scar blossomed into his vision. It crawled down the right side of the man's face and neck. At first glance it was a burn scar, but something about its pattern caught Logan's memories and he stared. It was too perfect, the folds of scar tissue too patterned, to be anything made from fire.  
Logan knew he recognized the pattern of that mark - it stirred up dangerously powerful emotions and instincts - but the memory was hazed behind the gin he drank and the fears that wafted up from the depths of his mind like smog. He saw flashes of the pattern etched into stone, crawling across steal, melting fortresses like molten metal.

Logan wondered how the man was alive. Even with his memories faint, he knew - as if he was in a dream - that scar meant death.

Questions, thoughts, and broken fractions of memories jangled through his head like a discordant brass band, stirring up instincts and half-forgotten scents that had his body stirring into heated bloodlust.

Screams floated up from the smog in his head.

He stared at the man's scar, tracing the rippling patterns that flowed over his jaw and fell down his neck to disappear into the collar of his shirt. It looked like scales, almost, his skin rippled and puckered in a precise, repetitive pattern.

Logan was tempted to run his fingers over the ripples and see how far the scarring went.

“Mate?” the man repeated and Logan finally met his eyes.

They were brilliantly green. Logan wasn’t sure how he’d missed such a striking feature, but the man’s scars had completely distracted him.

Logan huffed out a sound that could pass for an affirmation and downed the last of his liquor in one gulp, using the familiar burn to ground himself back into the present.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the man brought his own glass with him, some amber liquid that sloshed around ice. Logan smelled oak and smoke – whiskey.

“Something like that,” Logan’s eyes trailed the man’s scars again. They started just under his hairline and rippled down the right side of his face, skipping over his brow and crawled around his ear. They didn’t mar the shape of his face much, and the man seemed unconcerned with Logan’s staring.

“It hurt,” the man’s voice was tight and he shrugged as if trying to dislodge a painful memory. The man ran the tips of his fingers over his cheek and down to his chest before his hand dropped to his knee. “I’m Harry.”

He was British, Logan finally placed that accent, though it was touched with something else that gave his syllables a rolling gate as if the man had spent years somewhere else, speaking some other language.

“Logan.”

“Well met, mate,” Harry knocked back the last of his drink and pushed the glass across the counter towards the bartender. “What are you drinking?”

“Gin.”

“Good enough,” Harry gestured to their empty glasses and watched the bartender select a pair of bottles from his racks. “I prefer whiskey. Nothing like Ogden’s, but this stuff will do in a pinch.”

“Ogden’s?”

“Old Ogden’s Finest Firewhiskey,” Harry pushed the refill into Logan’s hands, “strong enough to make steam come out of your ears.”

Logan huffed, but raised his glass in imitation as Harry held his own in front of his face.

“To old pals, old pains, and old pasts,” Harry intoned, meeting Logan’s eyes and waving his glass.

“Slante,” Logan grumbled, and they both downed their liquor in one swoop.

Harry pushed their glasses back for another refill and settled onto his stool, seemingly perfectly content to attach himself to Logan’s side for the duration of the evening.

Harry pushed the glass at Logan and sipped at his own, watching the mutant over the rim of his glass.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Logan asked.

“What my scars remind you of.”

Logan sucked in a low breath, his chest vibrating with the force of his inhale. Harry's gaze, which had so far been steady and bright, flickered as if the man caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His intense gaze softened, distracted by something, though Logan couldn’t see what caught the man's attention in the dim bar.

Harry's stare cut back to Logan as suddenly as it had shuffled away.

“Course we could just sit here and get rat-arsed drunk instead,” Harry rocked his glass to the side, a quirky smile canting across his lips, “I’m happy to drown my memories in alcohol and company only makes it easier to forget.”

Logan studied the man for long minutes and Harry let him. The man sipped at his whiskey, returning Logan’s stare with an idle look of his own. He’d leaned an elbow on the bar top, supporting his head with one hand while swirling his whiskey with the other.

He was dressed darkly, but casually, in jeans and a black button-down that was rolled to his elbows. The man’s hair was a wild mop of black that flopped over his brow, curling around his ears. A stripe of silver decorated his right temple where his scars stretched into the hairline over his ear.

It was the man’s eyes that held most of Logan’s attention. They were bright and deep, swirling darker greens with brighter shades. They reminded Logan of fresh matcha tea eddying and frothing in a teacup, wafting with heat and flavor. They nearly glowed in the dim light of the bar as the man watched Logan study him, unconcerned and watchful.

“Booze,” Logan grabbed his glass and sucked down half its contents.

“A piss up it is,” Harry grinned, turned to face the bar squarely, and slammed his palms onto the surface. “We’re going to need a bottle or three.”

Logan felt his own grin cut across his face, but there was little humor in it. “At least three,” and Harry sent him a dark grin of his own.

 

II.

Later, Logan remembered the three bottles of whiskey and one bottle of gin the two downed, but only because the bartender had left them lined up in front of them with something of a gleeful scowl. He was sure most of it ended up in Logan’s glass, but Harry was no slouch when drinking, keeping up with the swift pace Logan set as they drank the liquor down in quick shots.

In between quick shots Harry spun tall tales.

Logan huffed around his drink, calling the other man on his stories of magic and dragons and dark lords. They were fanciful, but Logan couldn’t deny that Harry had a gift for spinning a yarn. His stories held enough intrigue, surprise, and political maneuvering to carry an element of believability, right up to the point Harry stole a dragon’s egg out from under a nesting mother.

Harry told his stories around an easy grin, his eyes sparking with delight, his voice coated with something husky and sweet, like granulated sugar. His smile and his eyes drew Logan in like a flame, luring his own stories out of his head in fits and starts of twisting memory.

So Logan told his own few stories, if just to watch Harry gesture through fanciful wand motions and imitate the toothy grin of a goblin banker. Logan pulled story elements from his fractured memories, and told short stories of mutant powers, epic battles, and personal dramas. And Harry rewarded him with more of the same, weaving stories as if he were a spider drawing a web from strings of whiskey.

In the midst of the whiskey and the stories of magic, Logan looked over to the corner and saw only the pool table. The man from his memories with the sparking cards and deft fingers had faded with the vanished taste of gin. All that was left was the whiskey and Harry’s bright green eyes.

When the bartender refused to hand them a fifth bottle Logan dragged Harry out of the bar by a grip on his bicep. The liquor was still warming his belly and Harry’s eyes were as clear and warm as when they started – four bottles ago.

The sudden blast of winter wind cut across their faces, sharp and dark.

“Bloody fuck,” Harry wrapped his long coat around him and put his back to the wind. He popped his collar up to protect his neck and stuffed his hands deep into his jacket pockets. He glared at Logan’s open leather jacket and unconcerned shrug at the cold.

"What, I'm Canadian," Logan grinned.

"Tosser."

“C’mon, you can crash in the camper,” Logan headed down the icy sidewalk to the lot behind the bar.

“I’m good.”

“Not askin, matcha,”

“Matcha?”

Logan didn’t explain, just gripped the other man’s jacket and dragged him along. “You downed two bottles of whiskey and you’re crashin with me. No questions.”

The man flailed ineffectually at Logan’s hold, slapping his hands against his arm and skidding his feet along the sidewalk. “I’m good, lemme go, I’m not even sloshed, bloody hell!”

Logan didn’t let go but did drag the man forward so his feet were under his body. Harry stumbled at the manhandling but caught his balance and strode alongside him with bad grace and a good deal of grumbling.

Logan just grinned and pulled him into the alley.

“Logan,” Harry said quietly and Logan cut his eyes over to the other man at the tone. Harry was looking forward, eyes cold and serious, flickering in that odd way as if he saw something outside of Logan's field of sight (and it made Logan wonder about the man's sanity, or about the something else it could be), but the hand Harry was using to keep his coat closed over his throat pointed behind them.

Logan didn’t need to look to know they are being followed.

“There’s three behind and two ahead,” Harry’s eyes flickered again, a tick that kicked his eyes to the outside corners and back, “friends of yours?”

“May be from the brawlin ring up the road,” the scent of sawdust and stale sweat that marked such places was carried on the breeze from the men behind them, “won a few rounds the other night up there. Some lost a lot of money, bettin wrong.”  
Harry hummed into his collar, his eyes flickering.

Logan eyed the man, taking in the green fluttering eyes, the curl of his lips, and the sure step of his gate. Despite the flickering of his eyes the man was steady. Harry’s eyes suddenly met his, clear and bright, all flickering gone, and Logan knew the man was no more drunk than he was.

“Five, eh?”

Harry nodded, a smirk crawling across his face.

“Good,” Logan grinned, “I could use a warm up.”

“Because it’s fucking cold,” Harry snarked, triumphant.

“S’not that cold,” Logan suddenly forced him down by the hand on the back of his coat. Logan already had his free fist cocked, swinging over Harry’s bowed head to the attacker dashing up behind them. He caught a quick glance of the man’s shaggy face and the old black eye before Harry kicked out like a mule. His heel slammed into the man low in his gut and sent him sprawling back down the sidewalk. He slammed into the concrete and skidded across the ice on his front.

Harry twisted under his hold, swinging his legs around and planting another boot into one of their attackers from the front. The sound of his toe slamming into the side of the man’s knee reverberated down the alley and the man choked on a scream.

Trusting that the Brit wasn't a pushover, Logan let the man go and swung his metal-reinforced fist into someone’s face, cracking the man’s cheekbone and dislocating his jaw. He slammed into the wall and slid bonelessly to the ground.

Harry’s pained grunt caught his attention, and Logan glanced over his shoulder even as he swung his fist into another attackers’ throat. He didn’t bother to watch the man fall, choking and gurgling to the ground.

Harry was pushed against the alley wall, one hand gripped around each of his attacker’s wrists, holding the two blades away from his face and gut. It was the second man from the alley, a thick, slick figure with a beaked nose. Harry pushed against the much larger man, and smirked darkly, twisting his hold on the upper arm and breaking the man’s wrist.

He yelled and one knife clattered to the ground as Harry yanked the man to his knees.

“Let go of it,” Harry visibly squeezed the man’s good wrist and chuckled at the pained growl he got in return. “I’ll break it.”

“Bastard!”

“You’re the one who brought a blade into a fistfight, idiot,” Harry wrenched the man’s arm away from his belly, yanking the blade in the man’s grip out of his gut and twisted harshly. The man opened his mouth to scream, but Logan jumped the distance and clamped a hand over his mouth.

The piercing sound was muffled behind Logan’s palm.

“Behind you,” Harry looked over Logan’s shoulder, his hands still clenched around the man’s broken wrists, holding him up off the ground as he slumped at his feet.

Something hard slammed over Logan’s head and he stumbled against the green-eyed man. Catching himself against the wall at Harry’s hip Logan smelled the whiskey on his breath as it ghosted hot over Logan's face. He snarled over his shoulder at the man behind him. He held a two-by-four in his hands like a bat, his eyes wide with rage, pain, and fear.

It was the man Harry had first kicked back to the sidewalk, the same man Logan had bettered in the cage two days ago. Logan had barely given the man a second glance then, but he was glaring now.

“That was a mistake, bub,” Logan pushed away from the wall and stalked after the man. He retreated quickly, stumbling and raising the plank of wood for another blow. Logan caught the two-by-four in his fist, yanked it away from the man, and tossed it away.

“Get away from me, freak!”

“You started this,” Logan pushed him into the wall, hard, “and I’m happy to finish it.”

“You gonna keep flirting, or knock the shithead out?” Harry quipped from behind him.

Logan growled and cuffed the man over the head, sending him sprawling into unconsciousness. He whirled on the other man and Harry just grinned at him, leaning against the alley wall with his fist clenched at the wound in his belly.  
Logan could smell the blood.

Their five attackers were all down in the alley, unconscious or groaning. The fight had barely taken minutes, and Logan was hardly winded from the quick little brawl.

“Let’s get that patched,” Logan gripped Harry’s bicep and pulled him away from the wall. Harry stumbled once, but only to kick at his attacker’s head, stopping the piteous moaning. Harry put up a token protest, but let the larger man manhandle him through the alley to the dim parking lot behind the bar.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry grouched.

“Don’t care.”

“Pushy bastard.”

Logan growled at him, getting nothing more than an amused smirk in return.

His pickup was parked in the back corner of an empty lot behind the bar, coated with a fine dusting of snow and half-lit by the lot’s only lamp. A camper perched atop the bed of the pickup, looking like a hump-backed turtle hunched over the cab of the truck. He opened the door and pushed the man into the small trailer.

Harry stumbled into the dark space, knocked something over on a counter, swore, and shuffled deeper inside. Logan followed and shut them in.

“Hold it,” Logan shuffled along the counter, knocking into Harry’s elbow, stubbing a toe against the man’s hard boots, and finally found the small lamp and lighter. The small flame shot a warm glow across the space, sending Harry’s face into a stark relief.

“Cozy,” Harry quipped, smirking from his lean against the opposite wall of cabinets.

“I can still dump you into a snowbank,” Logan slid past the man, the tight confines of the trailer forcing them together from shoulder to knees. Logan was big, but wasn’t especially tall and Harry topped his height if not his girth. Harry was lithe and long where Logan was barrel-chested and brawny, but there was no mistaking the strength the skinny man could put behind his kicks.

The green-eyed man just watched Logan shuffle past him, his eyes sparking in the lamp’s firelight, not tense or huffing at their close quarters.

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Harry pulled his hand away from his belly, eyeing the blood soaking his shirt, “I like cozy.”

“Sit down,” Logan grabbed the unused first aid kit from the depths of a high cabinet.

“This isn’t necessary.”

“Sit the fuck down, matcha.”

Harry peeled off his jacket and sat up on the counter. His wild hair brushed against the low ceiling, forcing him to hunch.

“Shirt,” Logan prompted, slapping the kit on the counter next to the man’s hip.

The man's green eyes flickered again, shifting sharply to the side and back in a quick motion. It was almost shifty, except the man's expression didn't match up.

“You trying to get me undressed, Logan?”

Logan cut the man a sharp look and pulled his bloodied hand away from his belly. “I wouldn’t need tricks to do that."

Harry laughed and unbuttoned his shirt, pushing the flaps aside to bare his bloodied torso and the dog tags that clinked against his sternum. Logan ignored those for the moment. The knife had punctured him low under the rib, off to the side near his stomach.

“S’not so bad,” Harry poked at the flesh around the wound and blood dribbled down his abs.

Logan huffed and popped the first aid kit open, eyeing its contents a little warily.

“Just get me something to clean it up with,” Harry said, also eyeing the little kit with obvious disdain. “It’s not deep.”

“Looks it.”

“Not as bad as it looks.”

“I know knife wounds, slick, that’s not looking good.”

“And I know my own body,” Harry pushed Logan’s prodding fingers away from his stomach, “get me a bloody rag already.”  
Logan acquiesced and handed the man a towel. Harry pressed it against the wound with a grimace. The two remained silent as Harry cleaned himself of blood and Logan pulled gauze from the kit. He pressed the pad against the wound.

“Hold that,” Logan dug through the small kit for tape as Harry’s fingers pressed around his on the gauze. Logan stretched the tape across the man’s abdomen, securing the thick gauze pad. Harry’s skin was hot under his fingers, sending his scent wafting through the small trailer. Logan could smell the blood, and the whiskey they had drank, but also the smoky, dry, musk scent that was Harry.

Logan pulled away from him with some reluctance, taking the towel and wiping the traces of blood from his fingers.

Harry reached up to Logan’s head, and Logan stilled, staring. Harry’s fingers slid through the hair around his ears and gripped his head.

“Let me look at that knob,” Harry said quietly, his breath fanning out between them.

“What?”

“That plank must’ve caused some damage,” and Harry’s fingers were already ghosting over the back of his head, through the blood-matted hair where he had been struck. It certainly had cut him, Logan knew. The force had been enough to crack his skull – if the metal didn’t coat his skeleton – and he could feel his own blood half dried in a trail down the back of his neck where it pooled into the collar of his flannel shirt.

Logan gripped the man’s wrist and pulled his fingers away, “no need for that, matcha.”

Harry eyed him silently before shrugging and pulling his wrist away from Logan’s grip, “suit yourself.” Harry turned to take in the rest of the trailer, eyeing the bed lifted over the cab of the truck and the narrow bench that served as a couch underneath it. Logan stood in front of the man, close enough to feel his heat, as he packed up the first aid kit and collected the trash.  
Harry’s knee nudged into his ribs, “you don’t snore, do you?”

Logan gripped the offending limb, feeling the man’s thigh contract under his palm.

“Cause I’ll smother your ass,” Harry continued, grinning.

“You can try,” Logan squeezed his fingers into the man’s thigh and saw the flash of discomfort ripple across Harry’s features. He felt the man’s other heel come against the small of his back, heavy and hard. It kicked Harry’s knee all the way up to Logan’s ribs, wrapping around his torso in an intimate embrace. It put Logan square between his powerful thighs.  
Logan glanced down as the man’s abs rippled with the movement.

“You should know I can kick your kidney into your spleen,” Harry warned, grinding his heel into said kidney.

“It wouldn’t be enough, matcha.”

“It’d still hurt like fucking hell and make me feel better.”

Logan barked out a laugh despite himself. He reached up under the man’s raised leg and ran his nails along the underside of his thigh from his knee to ass. The texture of the man’s dark jeans caught against his nails, and the sound was loud under their breathing.

The smell of whiskey and blood mixed with an intoxicating rush, dancing with the underlying scent that was Harry – something dry, powerful, and vast, like a heat storm over the great plains, or a whirlwind cutting across the Sahara.  
Harry stared at him, meeting his eyes with glowing green ones that reflected the lamp’s flickering light. It cast his scars in stark relief, rippling patterns that washed down his face, neck, across his collarbone and down his chest. It tapered off just below his ribs, threads of scar tissue stretching down the soft tissue of his side. Logan let go of his knee to push the man’s shirt off his right shoulder, following the scars over the man’s shoulder and down his bicep. It tapered off at his elbow, the same twisting ribbons threading over his forearm to fade into the flesh there.

“I’ve seen scars like these,” Logan traced them up the man’s arm, his fingers rippling over the ridges that stretched across lithe muscles.

“I doubt it,” Harry’s voice was low, his baritone husking out between his teeth. He was watching Logan’s face as Logan traced the scars over his body.

“Sentinels,” Logan’s voice was lower, more of a rumble in his chest than actual words, drawn up from the dark depths of his shrouded memories like an echoing whisper on the wind. Logan only half knew what it meant. The word came out of the fear and the pain and death that settled heavy and dark in the depths of his mind. It came from the things he sometimes saw ghosting over the world. Like the man and his red-flickering cards, or the taste of chicory in coffee, or the pattern that etched into Harry's skin.

Harry’s body tightened like a drawn bow, and he lifted his leg away from Logan, pushing his knee in between them forcefully. “Get off.”

Logan started and frowned, but Harry knocked his hand away and dug his knee into Logan’s chest, pushing. When Logan didn't move away fast enough, Harry kicked him, his steel-toed boot digging deep into Logan's belly just under his diaphragm.

The strength of it forced the air out of his lungs and his abs rippled in pained protest.

“Get. Off.”

Logan shifted and Harry used the opportunity to slink off the counter and away from the man. He slid silent and watchful towards the door but didn’t actually leave. His hand rested against the handle as he stared, his back to the door and facing Logan’s watching form. Logan didn’t try to stop him, a little stunned at the sudden stiffness from the man. He could still feel the man’s heat in his fingers, the texture of his jeans under his palm as he gripped the back of the man’s muscled thigh.

They stared at each other, long silent minutes passing as they tried to read each other through their locked eyes, even as Harry's cut in quick motions to the side and back to Logan. No matter the shuffling gaze, Logan met the man's eyes steadily, feeling Harry's gaze on him regardless of how his eyes shifted from front to side and back again.

It was like Harry was watching a moving picture scroll over Logan's face.

Logan wasn’t sure what to say, or do. He knew those scars, even if he couldn't remember how or why. Even when he couldn't find any trace of such a thing in the world.

But the man had known the name. Feared it. Logan had smelled the fear trickle through the man’s scent, drowning out the whiskey and the heat until it chilled the man’s flesh into cold sweats and goosebumps.

Logan had felt it under his hands, smelled it, damn near tasted Harry’s fear.

It was gone now. Harry had wrapped his emotions up tight, leaving only the faint traces of blood and whiskey to tempt Logan’s nose.

“Where’d you face a Sentinel?” Logan asked, hoping – praying – that fanciful story was about to come out of the other man’s mouth.

Harry’s hand loosened from its white-knuckled grip on the door handle, but he didn’t release it. “A long time ago, practically in another world.”

The concept reverberated around Logan's skull. It was right but it was wrong.

Logan sucked in a breath and it whistled through his teeth, “fuck, I need more liquor for this.”

“If those two bottles of whiskey wasn’t enough then you’re fucked.”

“If those two bottles of whiskey didn’t make you shit-faced than you and I are more alike than I thought.”

Harry huffed, his eyes carting down Logan’s body once before he looked away. “You just now picking that up?”

“I suspected when you didn’t fall on your face in the bar.”

“No, you suspected when you saw the scars on my face and thought of a Sentinel,” Harry’s eyes met his, sharp as stone and eerily bright, “cause they only attack a certain type.”

The knowledge came to Logan like the Sentinal name did, hissing through his mind. “The X-Gene." That meant --  
Harry didn’t ask what his mutation was, even though it was now obvious that they were both mutants. That was polite. His next words weren’t as much, “how the fuck do you know about them?”

“I could ask you the same.”

Harry hummed, letting go of the door to lean against it, his arms crossing over his chest. His shirt was still open, hanging around his scarred, muscled torso, framing the bandages that were taped to his belly.

Logan wasn’t sure why Harry decided to answer his question. Maybe the green-eyed man felt the same draw, the same attraction. Maybe he saw something in the corner of his eyes that satisfied him, because Harry's eyes had stopped flickering and remained steady.

But Logan thought it was more to do with need; the need to have somebody, anybody, understand.

It was a need that Logan knew, because even Charles wasn’t enough to sooth Logan’s nightmares and the nightmares were too much, too real to be dismissed or ignored.

Harry’s scar was a pale, rippled banner to Logan; a surrender he was desperate to give and terrified to lose. He needed to know, but the knowledge - the memories locked in his mind - terrified him.

“As I said, it was practically another world,” Harry said this slowly, watching Logan’s reaction.

Logan shrugged.

"How do you even know? Nobody knows about them. They don't exist here."

"Don't know," Logan shrugged again, "I don't remember."

Harry canted a sharp look at him.

"Don't remember much of anything. Only sometimes."

Harry stared at him in silence for a long minute. "Sentinels are rather hard to forget."

Logan grunted. His nightmares were vivid flashes of desperate terror and frenzied violence and all wrapped up around the fuzzy idea of the Sentinels. He couldn't remember them clearly in the day, but his nightmares could recall them vividly, leaving him gasping into the dawn most mornings.

"You see things?"

"What?"

Harry gestured vaguely at him, "do you see things, is that your -"

"What are you talking about?"

Harry huffed, "your mutation. Is it some kind of sight? Sentinels don't exist here. How the hell do you know about them?"

"It's not sight,” Logan leaned his hip against the counter Harry had previously sat on, and pointedly eyed the scars that rippled down the other man's chest, “just a bit of physical resiliency.”

Harry frowned. He was still leaning against the door, poised to flee. The tension in the air was thick and Logan still couldn’t smell more than the whiskey on the man’s breath.

"I can't remember," Logan reiterated, "just flashes."

"They don't exist here," Harry said, as if trying to convince himself of it.

"You keep saying, 'here,' why?"

Harry sucked in a long slow breath, the sound loud in the small trailer.

“I’m Seeker,” Harry reached up to tap a finger to the corner of his eyes, “my mutation lies in cross-dimensional ocular awareness.”

“In English, matcha.”

Harry huffed out a strained laugh, “I can see across the borders of dimensions and realities”

“So the Sentinels…”

“Exist in most dimensions in some shape, but I actually lived through a future in which they," Harry trailed off with an inarticulate sound that stuck in his throat. In the bright color of his eyes, Logan saw the same type of dark smog that shrouded his mind in fear.

Logan caught up with the man's words, "you lived through a future?"

"In which the Setninels - yes."

Logan shook his head, unable to wrap his head around the concept of time travel.

"The world was rewinding and I was unwilling to let go of my memories," Harry said, his voice quiet, "so I jumped across the dimensional border and kinda rode the wave backwards. Ended up in the seventies when time finally stopped going back. Or unraveling. It was more like the world fell apart around my ears. I don’t mind telling you that it hurt like hell, and that I probably won’t try crossing the borders again any time soon. Fuck.”

Harry let Logan stew in silence for a long few minutes.

“How many dimensions are there?” Logan finally ventured.

“More than you probably care to know,” Harry pushed away from the door, sliding back into the trailer along the counter. The motion was a testament to Harry’s decision to stay, no longer poised to flee. Logan wasn’t stupid enough to think the man wouldn’t or couldn’t take off if he chose to, though.

Logan watched the other man, taking in his body, his face, those scars that rippled over his skin and drew out memories from Logan's head. Not even Charles had been able to breach the smog. But this green-eyed man drew them out bit by broken bit by his presence alone.

He caught Harry's eyes flicker again, a noticeable tick, especially in light of the man's mutation.

“Seeker, eh?” Logan watched Harry's eyes flicker and then settle back on him, "what are you seeing when you look off like that?"

Harry waved that question off, "yeah well, amongst the many random skills and talents I've picked up over the years, my greatest is still my uncanny ability to find shit I shouldn't be able to."

"You find things."

"I play a mean game of hide-n-seek," Harry quipped with a lopsided grin, something in his voice and expression hinting at untold stories and meanings behind the words.

Logan smirked as Harry settled against the opposite counter, the tight space making their knees brush together until Harry settled his legs amongst Logan’s in a tangled weave, “I’m Wolverine.”

“Pleasure, wolf,” Harry greeted, grinning at Logan’s low growl, “it suits you. You just got the healing thing, or do you have any other fancy tricks?”

Logan demonstrated with a raised fist and three slowly extracted claws. They gleamed in the light, the small lamp flame flickering over their sharp, silver edges.

“Wicked,” Harry breathed, eyeing the blades, “where the fuck do they go when you retract them? Geez, you’re like a fucking cat.”

"This cat can cut you from neck to navel in a second, matcha."

Harry smirked, raised one hand in front of his face, and curled his fingers at him, "meow."

Logan growled low at the taunt, whipping his hand out fast even as his blades retracted with an audible scnick. He gripped the other man's neck, wrapping his hand around the scarred, muscled cords that ran under Harry's ear.

The position put Logan's head a lot closer, and he could feel the man's heat again, wafting up scents of whiskey and sand.

"Care to try that again?" Logan squeezed his fingers and Harry leaned forward slightly to take some of the pressure from the back of his neck. Harry's breath ghosted hot over his collarbone.

The man raised one eyebrow, face still amused and mocking, "rawr?"

"Fucker," Logan growled.

"I could do," Harry's eyes dropped pointedly to Logan's lips, then further to his belt, and Logan felt the heat follow the man’s gaze to pool low and restless.

"You don't know what you'd be gettin into, matcha."

Harry retorted quickly and bluntly, his eyes lingering low on Logan’s body, "I'd be getting into you."

"Not likely," and Logan used his handle on the man's neck to whip him across the trailer and into the opposite counter. Harry slammed into the edge of the counter and the cabinets with a startled sound, his elbows already coming back to dig into whatever part of Logan they could reach, but Logan was already inside the man's guard. He pressed his body hard against Harry's back, kicking his legs apart, and pressing Harry down with his chest. Harry grunted, head held hard against the cabinets, hips trapped against the edge of the counter. Logan's hand was still wrapped around his neck.

"That's not how it'd work, matcha," Logan pressed his nose into the sensitive, unmarked flesh below Harry's left ear and pulled in a long, slow whiff of the man's scent.

"You so sure?" Harry ground out, his voice muffled with his face pressed into the cabinet door.

"I'm sure," Logan gripped a flailing arm and pinned it over the man's head, slamming the wrist into the cheap cabinet. It cracked under the force.

"Bastard."

"Maybe," Logan nuzzled at the man's ear, breathing across the sensitive flesh. He felt the tremble travel down the man's neck and into his spine. "Maybe you want it this way."

"Oh yeah," Harry snarked, twisting under Logan's full-body hold, "with my face pressed into the wall like some huss-"

Logan bit down on the man's ear and Harry gasped around his words, choking out air and noise.

"You've got quite a mouth on you," Logan said, running his tongue over the bite.

Harry made a sound in his throat, a choked sort of moan that made Logan grin triumphantly. He pressed his hips tight into Harry's, their bodies well aligned with their matching heights, the slimmer man's long legs canted to the sides of Logan's own.  
The heat in Logan's belly was beginning to swirl.

Harry huffed and suddenly his heel slammed into the side of Logan's thigh. His leg cramped up sharply with the blow and Harry twisted out of his hold. He pulled Logan along the narrow space, turned, tripped him and landed hard across Logan's lap as they collapsed atop the narrow bench.

Harry pressed down on Logan's shoulder, the heel of one hand digging into the corner of his neck and his knee pressed hard against the sensitive apex of Logan's legs.

Logan paused to look down the length of their bodies, noting the narrow space between them, Harry's knee pressing hard against his groin, and the other man's heaving chest. Harry's dog tags dangled under him, brushing against the fabric stretched across Logan's chest.

Logan reached down and gripped the thigh that controlled the threatening knee, his hand wrapping around Harry's lithe limb and squeezing the powerful muscles there. His grip kept the other man from pressing any harder into him, and Logan used the hard pressure to thrust his hips up, looking for friction. It was not enough give to be pleasant, but enough pressure to spark something skittering up his middle.

Harry watched him, his green eyes heated. Cross-dimensional awareness, ocular; Logan wondered what Harry saw when his eyes flickered off like that. But Harry's eyes were steady and intense, not flickering or sliding off to the corners to see some alternate scene only he was privy to. There was satisfaction layered into the heated green, and the scent of musk and lust built under Logan's nose.

It was a challenge and a dare, sweet and alluring.

It didn't take them long to strip off their clothes, though Harry kept his unbuttoned shirt, and Logan’s jeans were rucked down around his knees. Harry’s thighs pressed hard against Logan’s side, their groins aligned and held tight together. Harry’s long-fingered hands wrapped around them both, his palms hot and slicked with his tongue.

They hadn’t kissed, though Logan could see the marks decorating Harry’s neck even in the dim light of the trailer, and the man hadn’t hesitated before spitting into his palm and taking a firm hold of Logan’s flesh.

As the swearing tumbling from Harry’s mouth increased, Logan started to wish he had tasted the man's tongue. He wondered if it would be bitter, flavored with Harry’s often foul language and sarcastic wit.

Logan’s fingers dug into the flesh that wrapped around the man’s hips, holding the smaller man to him as he rocked up into his hands. Logan’s fingers tracked roughly across flesh, dragging his blunt nails into the skin and kneading harshly into muscles.

It was bound to give Harry bruises, but the green-eyed man didn’t seem to mind, groaning and gasping with the rough handling even as his own hands squeezed around the sensitive flesh he stroked with a steady, tight rhythm.

Logan’s fingers dipped under the man’s ass, digging into the hot space between his muscles and Harry simultaneously groaned and glared at him.

“Don’t even think about it,” Harry squeezed his hands and won his own moan from Logan.

“Too late, matcha,” one of Logan’s fingers slid inside, deep and insistent, pressed into the tight heat of the man’s body.

“Fuck.”

“That's it, exactly.”

“Don’t care,” Harry’s palm pressed hard down on the head of Logan's flesh, pressing him down to Harry's length, more pain than pleasure. “You’re bloody huge. It’s not happening. Tough – ahh – fucking luck.”

Logan repeated the curling of his finger and reveled in the repeated gasps that fell from Harry’s throat.

Logan didn’t push it. Harry’s hands were talented where they wrapped around their flesh, and Harry didn’t stop Logan from exploring with his fingers as the heat built hot and fast between them. The smell of sex, whiskey, and Harry’s blood filled the small trailer, feeding their urges, and satisfying a shared, deep need for companionship and fulfillment.

Not once during their encounter did Harry's eyes flicker to the side. Logan soaked in the steady, intense gaze that poured out of the man's eyes like they were a pair faceted gems backlit by fire.

 

III.

Harry wasn’t a seer. He couldn’t see the future, or the past for that matter. But some realities were so similar that he could look across the border and take a gander at how things would play out.

It wasn’t infallible, in actuality it was dangerously misleading at the best of times, but being able to see so many realities he was able to gauge with relative accuracy how people would react. It wasn’t that he saw any kind of reliable future, but that he could see across so many borders all at once – like looking into the endless reflections of funhouse mirrors – that he could see all the variable paths a person could take and quantify the probability of a particular reaction.

Those reflections always lurked at the corner of his eyes, an endless shuffle of visions that folded out in front of him when he looked to the side, just that way, and displayed an accordion of alternative scenes.

Harry eyed Logan’s limp wrist and hand over his head. The bulk of the man was sprawled into his bed nook, body akimbo with a single wool blanket haphazardly strewn across his body. He was unheeding of the chill pervading the trailer.

Harry could see his breath puff out with each exhale and he felt the cold nip at his exposed flesh. Tucked tight into his jacket and under Logan’s extra wool blanket, Harry had curled low into the bare couch, flitting in and out of a sated sleep.

Morning had brought thin streams of light into the trailer. It cut through the chill air like glowing knives, lighting up floating dust and Logan’s muscled wrist. Harry watched the dust bounce through the light, studying the faint scars that marked Logan’s fists, right between his knuckles where his claws cut through flesh.

It was such an interesting mutation, metal knives that emerged like cat’s claws, not from the tips of fingers but from the depths of the hands’ bones.

It was slick and feral all at once.

Harry looked sideways, across the border of the worlds, through the reflections that sprang up in the corners of his vision in an endless echo of image and action and reaction.

He couldn't look forward, or backward, only sideways across the borders of all the realities and possibilities and could-have-beens.

He caught sight of the trailer in countless ways, that same morning repeated with all its many variations, each image more and more different until they stretched into a blur of probability beyond Harry’s sight.

The morning, in most – in most of the closest – reflections was quiet, though the interactions of its occupants varied drastically. Harry caught flashes of action, anything from stunted conversation, a lusty repeat of last night’s performance, a tussle of words that included threats and insults, a tussle that was more violently physical, and in one a sweet kiss that lingered in the glow of the morning’s sun.

Harry paused at that, eyeing the scene until the building ache of longing in his gut prompted him onward, half running away and half searching for a way to make it happen, make it real in his own reality.

As Harry’s vision shuffled across the borders of reality the identity of the occupants differed, the Harrys quickly fading – there were only a handful of realities where Harry met Logan at all – replaced by other faces that also disappeared from the reflections, until only Logan was there to wake alone.

Logan’s lonely image remained, repeated endlessly across the borders, always steady and always with that gaze that told

Harry the man was looking for something intangible and fleeting.

Harry shuffled back, taking a curious look at the handful of different people that took Harry’s place in some alternate reality, each one different, and a seemingly random selection from the local bar populous.

Harry drew away, back through the nearest variations. Echoes of words floated through the visions, Logan's voice calling him matcha in that strange affectionate tone, Logan gasping in pleasure, and growling in anger; the variations of voice as different as the alternatives in action. Harry retreated until he was sitting solidly back in his own head, his own reality, with the light cutting into Logan’s hand above his head.

Harry closed his eyes and blocked out the lingering afterimages that hovered at the corners of his eyes.

Some people were so very different in each reality, drastically responding to the slightest difference in their worlds and tumbling off into directions, personalities, decisions that built into a completely new image of them.  
Harry’s counterparts were always that way.

Each Harry Potter in every reality was so very different from their neighbors. It was why Harry couldn’t predict his own reactions – never cared to. He had nothing similar to go off of. When he looked across the borders at himself he saw such a variegated kaleidoscope of possibilities that it made him dizzy.

But Logan was the opposite.

He was almost always the same; exactly predictable down to the style of his hair, the path of his life, and the twitches of his face. Harry could look into almost any reality and find Logan in the same spot, walking through the same snowbank, saying the same words as in any other. The differences of his world or the people he interacted with were hardly strong enough to sway him from that same path.

He was steady even when he was interacting with Harry, unlike almost anybody else who rocketed off Harry’s differences like a break of balls on a pool table. It was a curious side-effect of Harry's variability and Logan seemed completely exempt from the effect.

It was strange and comforting all at once.

Logan’s absolute stubborn existence was something of a marvel to Harry, whose own alternate lives varied so drastically across every border.

“I can hear your brain thumping from up here, matcha,” Logan’s hand twitched and disappeared over the ledge of the bed.  
“I’m just trying to decide if I can fit up there with you or not.”

Logan grunted, “tight fit.”

“You loosened me up last night,” Harry’s voice was sultry and lazy and filled with heat. The mattress above him creaked and Logan’s head peered over the edge of the bed. His hair was ruffled wildly and sleep still lingered across his expression, but his eyes reflected the heat Harry felt curling low in his belly.

“Change your mind, matcha?”

“Hmm, we could go out into the snow and spar instead if you prefer,” Harry caught sight of another reality where they did just that. The image flickered out from the corner of his eye, filled with another kind of heat where Logan’s claws clashed with Harry’s knives, Logan’s strength pitted against Harry’s speed. The scene was surrounded by snow, heated by combat, spattered with their blood and their mutual grins of satisfied bloodlust.

“Wouldn’t be a bad morning, either,” Harry caught Logan’s intense observation, wondered what the man saw when Harry glanced across the borders to peak at possibilities. Did he notice when Harry did so?

“Choices, eh?”

“You choose,” Harry shifted on the narrow bench, feeling the blanket fall down his chest and the chill air nip at his bared skin. Logan’s eyes followed the movement.

“Maybe I want both.”

“Greedy bastard,” Harry admonished, amused and delighted.

Logan’s hand reached down and pulled Harry bodily onto the bed above. It was a tight fit, Logan could just barely lay on his side on the bed with his broad shoulders brushing the ceiling, blocking out the light coming through the narrow window at the front of the trailer. They couldn’t both fit there, not with any room to move and certainly not the way Harry wanted, with Logan pressing him into the mattress, but Logan pulled Harry against his side and Harry gasped into the man’s mouth as Logan kissed him.

It was unexpected and hard, just a little bit feral as Logan’s teeth bit at Harry’s lips, demanding both entrance and compliance. Harry couldn’t bring himself to deny the man, though his own teeth returned the favor along the man’s tongue.  
Logan’s hand was already skating down Harry’s torso skirting around the taped gauze on his belly with a gentleness that was unexpected from him.

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry mumbled into the thin space between their faces. He could smell the stale whiskey on Logan’s breath, and the heavy, cold pine that clung to his skin.

Logan’s fingers circled the bandage, “what do you see when you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Sideways.”

Harry looked to the side, to the corners of his eyes where all the alternative worlds unfolded like an accordion, or fanned out like a deck of cards in a magician’s hands.

“Like that,” Logan whispered, his breath ghosting hot over the scars on Harry’s face.

“Possibilities, probabilities,” Harry was still flickering across the borders, only partially aware of Logan’s eyes on him, his hands as they skittered up and down Harry’s ribs, “all the different ways this moment right here could have been.”

Harry shuffled back through the closest realities, pausing as a high probability event slammed through most of the realities where Harry lay under Logan’s hands, tucked into his side, just like –

“We need to go,” Harry gasped, snapping back to his own body and reality. Other realities shuddered in the corner of his eyes.

“What?”

“Police,” Harry choked out, already rolling away to peer through the nearest window. He pushed the blinds apart and canted his eyes across the parking lot. It was empty, coated in a thin layer of snow. The bar’s windows were dark and the alley where they fought their attackers was empty. But Harry couldn’t see the lot’s drive or the road that ran behind it.

“From the man whose wrists I broke,” Harry mumbled as other realities flickered out from the corners and back again in a flash of scenes. “I think. We should go.”

Logan huffed and pushed Harry off the bed, but Harry was already moving and they dressed quickly in the tight confines of the trailer. Harry kept cutting is attention between his actions, the windows, and the alternate scenes fluttering in the corner of his eyes.

“Get in the cab,” Logan said, pushing Harry out the trailer door. They stumbled around and into the cold truck cab, “when are they coming?”

“Fuck if I know,” Harry earned a dark glare from the man, “I can’t see the future, just – sideways at all the different nows that could have been.”

“How do you know they’re coming?” but Logan was getting the truck’s engine to turn over with a shudder, and he eyed the lot and the street and the dim alley as if waiting for an ambush.

“Because it’s already happened in other realities,” Harry was paying more attention to the scenes playing out across the borders, scenes where the truck spun the loose snow behind its wheels as it skidded out of the lot, where Logan threw off heavy handed officers, or where Harry was knocked down with a baton to the back of his head, or one particularly harrowing reality where the lot was flooded with marines who carried reinforced shackles and chains –

“Just go,” Harry pulled away, shied away from that vision, letting the scenes flicker back to the corners where they hovered.  
They went.

In the distance behind them, Harry heard a siren call out across the snow.

 

IV.

They traveled for hours in silence, the truck’s engine and the rattling heater mixed with the sounds of their breathing. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but Harry watched the passing scenery rather than the man driving next to him. He didn’t look at the flickering images in the corner of his eyes. They had already diverged from that morning so much that only a handful showed Harry in Logan’s cab at all.

Such events weren’t unusual with Harry. There were points across the realities where a series of different decisions would bring him to the same place regardless, a common point that echoed across the borders and then deviated wildly afterward.

Harry’s night with Logan was one such moment. It was reflected in dozens of realities, even though Harry in each one was so very different and Logan was so very much the same. Even as Logan drove idly down the snowy Canadian road, he was echoed across the borders, a mirror image of the same Logan in the same truck and on that same road, over and over again, almost always alone.

Logan didn’t change.

Harry was always different, though, and there were only a handful of realities where Harry rode in that truck with the other mutant, watching the landscape slip by as the sun skimmed above the icy trees.  
“Where ya headed?”

Harry pulled his thoughts, gaze, and sight all back to the man next to him, “eh?”

“Where ya goin, matcha?” Logan glanced at him, but watched the road more, which was probably best with the wind blowing snow across the tarmac. “How’d ya get all the way out here? Hitchin?”

“Something like that,” Harry hedged, “and I’m going nowhere in particular.”

“Runnin then.”

Harry hummed, the sound low and deep in his throat. It wasn’t false. Logan wasn’t really pushing for answers, but even if the man did Harry wouldn’t mind. He’d probably tell the man a great deal, just because he was so damn predictable. Logan’s ridiculously steady presence – echoed endlessly across all the borders of reality – was one of the most comforting things Harry had ever come across.

He would give Logan a great deal, reassured by what he could see across the borders, but also because Harry wanted to. He wanted someone – needed it – and Logan was as good as any, better because he understood the past-future that Harry had lived through and been scarred by. Harry would have to get more information about that - how in Merlin's name did Logan know about some Sentinal-destroyed future that collapsed backwards? He must have known something of that future still. He knew the Sentinal scars, after all.

Logan understood what it was like to run from a future into the past and then have to face what he’d run himself into, all the possibilities and temptations to change things.

Harry ran his fingers down the rippling pattern of scars on his face, “from memories, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“And the lure of meddling.”

Logan cut him another glance.

“I lived a future, remember,” Harry admitted, watching the faint expressions roll across Logan’s features. Harry wondered if Logan had ever been tempted to meddle with things or if he forgot more than he remembered. “My past is just beginning and it wasn’t an easy one. I’m tempted to try and change it all.” To try to save them.

Logan just grunted a sound that could be acceptance or derision, Harry had no idea.

“With you physically crossing dimensions,” Logan began.

And Harry finished for him, “are there two of me? Yup, swaddled and fresh.”

“You were just born?”

“No, I was born decades ago, in another reality,” Harry corrected, because that was the only way he could think of it and not plant himself at Godric’s Hollow to change it all.

Harry shifted his vision to the side, into the shuffling images of other realities. But he didn’t look at Logan’s truck, rather he skipped over the landscape, shooting across the ocean to find Godric’s Hollow nestled in its valley, reflected across the borders. It was a hazy collection of scenes because he wasn’t there and it was so far away from Canada, but he could see the house where his parents hid under a Fidelius well enough.

It wasn’t the same in every reality, and it wasn’t even the Potters across each of them, but it was one of those moments, where it was almost exactly the same across every border Harry could glimpse, a long pattern of reflected scenes with differences so subtle as to be insignificant. Because the prophesy is one of those things that was in almost every reality, and it could only ever be about so many people, which put the Potters in Godric’s Hollow under wards almost every single time.  
Harry had looked across the borders at the Wizarding World often enough since his jump to the past to know.

“So change it,” Logan’s voice cut through Harry’s thoughts and visions, dragging him back across borders to the truck ambling down a snowy Canadian road. The visions of other realities flutter back to the corners of his sight, like trembling flutterby wings.

Harry blinked at the sun reflecting bright light off the snow and turned to the man, “what?”

“Change it, matcha,” Logan repeated, looking away from the road long enough to meet Harry’s wide eyes, “why not?”

Why not? Because – and Harry didn’t have a reason. Not a one except perhaps his own timidity to return to a world that cast him out in a future that was terrible and war-torn.

“It’s not my world anymore,” one of Harry’s hands gripped the opposite wrist tightly, pressing down on the silvery scar that circled his arm right over his pulse point, spiraling three times around muscle and bone.

“You’re living in it.”

Harry wasn’t, not in the way Logan thought.

Harry looked at the other man, knowing that Logan didn’t quite understand the difference because Logan may have been a mutant and something of a time traveler, but he wasn’t a wizard and Harry had been banished from them years ago – in that aborted future Logan had changed.

“Maybe,” Harry conceded, “but in that future they banished me from them, and I’m not inclined to sacrifice myself for them all again, just to be cast away like a used tool. I’m happy to let it go as it will. Without the Sentinels, it may be different all on its own.”

Logan seemed to understand that Harry wasn’t interested in explaining or talking more about it, and the man shrugged Harry’s heated refusal away.

“Do you want to change things?” Harry asked.

“Change what?”

"Things that you lived in future with the Sentinals."

Logan gave him an odd look, something twisted with confusion and incredulity. "Future, bub?"

Harry huffed. "The Sentinals certainly don't exist now. They hunted down mutants across the world decades from now." He eyed the other man, considering the terrible possibilities that Logan didn't come from a future but rather saw the Sentinals somewhere in the past. If There were any of those monstrosities left in the world...

“Like I said,” Logan glanced at him, his eyes displaying something desperate and sad, "I don't remember."

"Fuck, if you do and those things are still around, tell me."

Logan's eyes cut down Harry's scarred face and the recognition of the scarring pattern was written in the fear that flashed real and cold across his face.

"You don't remember, huh?"

Logan shook his head. "Flashes."

“Fair enough I suppose,” and then Harry shook off thoughts of changing the course of the future and other realities and magical societies who were willing to cast out their savior because of fear and mutation. He gave Logan a crooked grin with hints of adventure and heat, “where are we going, wolf?”

Logan pointed with one finger over the wheel, his hand not letting off the jittering steering mechanism, “we’re headed west then, matcha.”

“West works for me.”

“There ain’t much out there but snow and wilderness.”

“You’ll be there to keep me warm.”

Logan barked out a laugh and nodded.

.


End file.
